


A Bullet to the Heart

by Ocearna



Series: Guns, Claws and Wolfsbane [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:08:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocearna/pseuds/Ocearna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles, I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”</p><p>“Neither can I,” Stiles mumbles. His dad’s head shoots up from where it had fallen, all the better to contemplate the wood grain of the table, and Stiles sighs as well. “But it’s not that simple.”</p><p>---</p><p>Written pre-season 3. Mainly: the Sheriff doesn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bullet to the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember why or how but sometime during season 2 I developed a head-canon that Stiles knew how to shoot a gun - really well in fact - but his Dad made him promise to never use one unless he was there. And even after everything that's happened - the lying and that sneaking around and everything - that's the one thing Stiles can't break. Then this spawned. 
> 
> This has been sitting on my laptop, half-written for a year or so, so apologies for any flow errors. I just needed to get it done and out of my head. Hope you enjoy!

They had just defeated the big bad of the week and Stiles was _dead_. Seriously, all he wanted to do was sleep for a week. The pack were still hyped up though, grinning and back-slapping each other in post-victory glee, so Stiles took the opportunity to slink away as quietly as he could. Thankfully it worked - they were apparently all too distracted by each other and everything that had just happened to notice or maybe care - and Stiles managed the entire drive home in peace.

It would be just his luck that it wouldn’t last.

The kitchen light was on and even as Stiles pulled into the driveway he knew his dad was still up and awake and that there was explaining to be done. Except that he didn’t feel like explaining anything and he sure as hell couldn’t tell the truth so after turning the ignition off Stiles just let himself slump in his seat, his forehead resting uncomfortably on the steering wheel.

He stayed like that for a minute, just contemplating the complete nightmare-from-the-deepest-darkest-pits-of-hell that was his life and trying to work out what he was going to do. It took the front door opening, the extra light spilling across his face, for Stiles to finally look up resignedly and sigh, slipping out of his seat and opening the door without breaking gazes with his dad.

Every step up the drive felt like it took forever, the blood rushing through his body with an audible _thump, thump_ and Stiles didn’t even bother to say anything as his dad stepped aside to hold the door open while Stiles stumbled in, heading straight to the kitchen for a glass of water. He wanted coffee but that was never a good idea and even less so now when it was late and he should really be in bed but no, he was screwed because his dad was staring at him with his _you are not getting out of this we are talking about this right now_ stare and how the hell was this his life.

“Hi, dad.”

Stiles saw how his tone - tired, a little scratchy, nothing at all like his usual hyperactivity - made the Sheriff’s eyebrows pull in just that bit more. And then he was collapsing into a seat at the dining room table, his head falling to rest on his arms, and he heard his dad pull out the chair opposite and sit, and Stiles just lay there and waited for the inevitable.

“Stiles, I--” the Sheriff started after a minute. He paused and cleared his throat a little so Stiles pushed the still half-full glass of water over to him. Then he continued, “Stiles, I need to know what’s happening.”

It truly said something about how tired and sick of everything Stiles was that he didn’t immediately try to lie to redirect the conversation - “Happening? I didn’t know anything was happening, dad,” sprung to mind - but just groaned.

“Stiles?” His dad asked and there was a slight edge of panic to his voice so Stiles forced himself to sit up, supporting his head on one hand and stealing the water back - a quarter of a glass now.

“’m fine, dad,” he tried, already knowing it wouldn’t work.

The Sheriff’s frown deepened, his mouth pulling tight. “Son, I mean it. Something’s wrong.” When he got no response he sighed and ran a hand over his face, eyes briefly unfocused. But then he was back and his voice was stronger as he continued, “At first it was just little things - coming home late, randomly appearing at crime scenes - but then there was the whole thing with Derek Hale and the animal attacks and that became Lydia Martin wandering the forest for three days and more dead bodies and _you, you_ being attacked at the mechanic’s shop, and just-” He breaks off with a choking sound that Stiles recognises from his own voice these last few days. “Stiles, I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Neither can I,” Stiles mumbles. His dad’s head shoots up from where it had fallen, all the better to contemplate the wood grain of the table, and Stiles sighs as well. “But it’s not that simple.”

“What?” The Sheriff looks confused briefly, but also slightly happy, until the words register and his expression becomes just that little bit darker. “What isn’t simple, Stiles?”

“This!” The outburst surprises both of them, but suddenly Stiles is having a burst of energy and his arm flings out emphatically as he tries to explain without explaining. “This whole situation! All the shit that’s been happening - all the running and fighting and being scared out of my fucking brain - and then not being able to say anything, not being able to tell anyone, not being able to tell _you_ \- I’m just so fucking _sick of it_.”

Stiles pants slightly, his exhaustion catching up with him again as he slumps again, but his dad is looking both more and less worried.

“Running? _Fighting_?”

“Shit.” Stiles laughs a little, dryly and without an ounce of humour in it. “Of course that’s the part you’d pick up on.”

“Stiles, if you’re trying to redirect-”

“No,” Stiles cuts him off. “No, for once, I’m not. I’m just-” He scowls because god this is difficult. “I can’t tell you, dad.”

“Stiles-”

“I _can’t_ , okay?” His dad must hear his frustration because he pauses and really _looks_ at Stiles, sees the shadows under his eyes and the way he’s alert - wary - even when he’s this tired. “I can’t, and you don’t have any idea how much that hurts, but it’s _necessary_.” And fuck if that isn’t becoming a very familiar justification frighteningly fast.

The Sheriff lets silence fall for a few moments, his mind obviously going a mile a minute. Then; “Why?”

Stiles huffs, sinks even further down in his seat. “Because.”

“Son-”

“I can’t tell you, dad,” Stiles repeats, and he feels his heart wrench just that bit harder. “I wish I could but this is the kind of thing you can’t unknow and currently you don’t know and you have no idea how much I sometimes wish I still didn’t know and, honestly, sometimes I’m jealous of other people. Because they _don’t know_. And I can’t just tell you because it would be so much better for you if you never found out, if you never have to deal with all of _this,_ ” and his hand waves in a vague and half-hearted all-encompassing gesture even as acid drips from his voice on the last word.

It’s quiet for another minute while the Sheriff tries to digest that, his expression slowly sinking further and further into just plain heartache and despair and _lost_ and it reminds Stiles so much of the night he came home after having lost his job and god that hurts.

Finally the Sheriff gets up, slowly and with the grace of a man ten years older, to raid the kitchen cupboards. He comes back with half a glass of whiskey and knocks back a good third of it as soon as he sits down again.

“What can you tell me?”

Stiles is silent for another minute but eventually he holds out his hand and starts ticking things off on his fingers. “The world’s not as simply as you thought. There are worse things out there than murderers and thieves and all the shit you deal with. Scott and me are involved but we’re on the good side and we’ve got allies and so far we’ve managed to make it through all right. Derek Hale didn’t actually kill any of the people he was suspected of killing. Melissa McCall knows so if anyone ever turns up here bleeding and injured or whatever send them to her. Or Deaton, Scott’s boss. If anything weird happens or anyone ever threatens you call me, Scott, Derek or Chris Argent - and yes I’ll give you their numbers later. And dad-” he pauses, looks up and locks his gaze with his dad’s, “-please, _please_ , stay out of it.”

“If this is some kind of gang thing-” Sheriff Stilinski starts.

Stiles laughs again, even drier if possible. “I wish,” he mutters as he pushed himself up from the table. He drains the glass of water and just leaves it there as he turns to go up the stairs, footsteps slow.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff calls, and Stiles stops with one foot on the bottom stair. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Stiles almost whispers, turning to continue up to bed. “If there was I would ask but for now there’s nothing. The kind of things we fight - _how_ we fight-” And then he stops, and his body tenses up and the Sheriff recognises it as Stiles having just realised something.

“Stiles?” he calls again.

And then Stiles is turning and he’s grinning for the first time in days - not a full grin but a partial one and at the moment that’s enough for the Sheriff - and moving back down the steps like he’s too lost in his own mind to recognise what he’s doing.

“Actually, there is one thing,” he admits slowly as he nears the table, and the Sheriff feels the clench in his stomach that comes with knowing he’s not going to like what Stiles is about to say even as his heart lightens slightly. “You remember that box you keep in the top of your cupboard...?”

* * *

 

When Stiles turned up at the next fight with a gun most of the pack looked at him with confusion and a little fear. The idea, after all, of Stiles with something as dangerous as a gun didn’t seem particularly safe. When, after the fight, they did a body count and realised four of the injured enemies were entirely _Stiles’_ work, the confusion shifted to shock.

Each hit was designed to incapacitate - maximum damage without being fatal - and by god they worked. Even Chris paused at the sheer skill required; the knowledge and experience that went into being able to pull off shots like that.

They were perfect.

 _Stiles’ shooting_ was _perfect_.

* * *

 

It took three weeks and a fair amount of spiked alcohol before Scott admitted that he had known Stiles could shoot - though not that well - because the Sheriff had taught him after Stiles’ mum died. It had been their bonding thing; Stiles being able to take out his anger and hurt on the targets and his father teaching Stiles to defend himself, in the hopes he wouldn’t lose his son like he had just lost his wife.

(If Stiles noticed how protective the pack got of him after that he never said anything.)


End file.
